


Natevember Prompts 2020

by Gynedroid



Category: Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Complete, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:21:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 18,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27333334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gynedroid/pseuds/Gynedroid
Summary: A collection of short stories following the Natevember prompts as suggested by Nyanders ( https://twitter.com/fondofthehowes ).Chapters are not contiguous, and unless otherwise stated, are "canon" compliant to my main fic, Ties that Bind.  None are required reading for it, however.Likely to come out 1 a day (unless I screw up), and yes, will perhaps inhibit progress on the main fic slightly.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 6





	1. Ache

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nathaniel deals with some bruises he got during a mission, and processes the pain he feels over his father's actions.

Nathaniel hissed even as he applied the poultice, grateful to be alone in his room. The numbing began to work soon enough, so he moved on to the next bruises and wounds. He gritted his teeth against the sharp pain of injuries being prodded and the cool jab of them being healed. It was a marked contrast to the dull ache of all the other no-longer-fresh wounds he had yet to patch.

Maker. That had very nearly gone so wrong. Walking right into an ambush was never Nathaniel’s preferred Tuesday, but at least they’d made it back to Vigil’s Keep in one piece. Anders was currently healing a rather badly wounded Commander Tabris. The relatively minor bruises Nathaniel received were easy enough for him to see to on his own.

He trusted the commander, implicitly, but sometimes he wondered if following in her shadow was going to bring him rather more trouble than he’d quite prepared for. 

A faint smirk crossed his face even as he considered it, momentarily fading as he tended to the next major wound. _Why lie to myself? I knew what I was signing on to._

_And it had to be done._

His heart clenched within him, a familiar ache flaring in his heart. He had to do this; the choice was beyond him. His father had committed great sins. The Howes were pariahs now, his family name in shambles. All the pride he’d once felt in his father was now just a festering wound deep within him. 

But such actions had affected more than just him. Nathaniel knew he had to maker up for his father’s mistakes. So many people’s lives had been irrevocably harmed by the Butcher of Denerim’s malice. The Couslands--there was a keen pain, best not to dwell--the elves of Denerim’s alienage, the people of Highever and Amaranthine both. His father’s evil even harmed those closer to home--or perhaps, it _especially_ harmed them, living the closest to Rendon’s seat of uncontested power during his reign of terror.

He glanced out the window into the courtyard, looking over the ground of the keep that had once been his family’s. Some of the castle servants bustled about below, and even then, he caught a few familiar faces. Samuel, the groundskeeper, laughing in conversation with Linna, the kennelmaster. Marshall, one of the stable-hands, practically bouncing in his step as he hefted a bundle of hay.

They looked so much happier now than he’d ever remembered them.

It was bittersweet, watching them, knowing how unfettered they were. He was happy for them, truly. But seeing this contrast--how could he have missed this before? 

Nathaniel liked to consider himself a decent people reader. He preferred to always err on the side of kindness, or when that failed, politeness. But to do that, one had to understand what people’s needs were, what their pain was. That the servants had suffered under his father--what did it say about him, that he missed that?

Nathaniel’s face darkened, considering. What did it say about him, that he missed _Delilah’s_ pain?

_“I had no idea.”_

_“Of course you did. But you always worshiped father, right from when you were a little boy.”_

Her retort was kind and chastising both, meant to provide empathy to his mistakes. She forced him to acknowledge that even then, Nathaniel had an inkling of the truth of his father’s tyrannical ways, blunted by the love and foolish admiration he once clung to. She wanted him to have some excuse for his willingness to believe that his father couldn’t be at fault--that there must be some conspiracy against his family. Her kindness and cutting insight weighed heavily around his shoulders. 

_I have to do better._

Would that pain ever go away, he wondered, or would it just stay in the back of his mind, a dull, throbbing reminder of all that had gone wrong? Rendon Howe, the looming shadow of all his worst impulses and mistakes. The picture of corruption he’d thought his father always railed against. A man he’d once thought of as a hero.

Nathaniel covered his last major bruise with poultice and sighed, leaning back in his padded chair. He stared at the ceiling, letting the healing remedy take hold. Numbness was dulling the pain, now, alongside the familiar cool but sharp twinge of healing. 

They’d saved a village, today. It wasn’t even from darkspawn, just--bandits. Not exactly standard Warden duties, that. But the commander could never bring herself to not help those in need. He was reminded, again, that he’d made the right choice. Serving the Wardens was exactly the right path to fixing his father’s mistakes.

Unbidden, a smile came to his features. 

He knew what sort of man he wanted to be--a hero, serving the land and its people, just like he thought his father had been. And even if his father wasn’t half the man Nathaniel thought he was, heroism was still an ideal he could aspire to. He’d not let himself fall an iota short of that just because his father had fallen so far from reality.

And besides, now he had a new, better example of the kind of hero he wanted to be.

Things were going to get better. The ache might not go away, but he knew that pain could be a good reminder, a warning against complacency. His father had fallen. He would not make the same mistakes.


	2. Jar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nathaniel's mother heals a wound he receives from a poisoned blade, while explaining ways to remove poison. Years later, Nathaniel recalls that advice, while he deals with the vicious anger of some of the common folk his father abused.

  
  
  


“Stop squirming, Nathaniel.”

His mother’s chiding tone brought him up short, and obediently he held as steady as he could manage, despite the pain as she inspected his wound. How embarrassing, to have to be _told_ that. His lips trembled with the effort, it stung something fierce, but father had always taught him men were supposed to be tough, and to endure what pain they could not avoid.

Of course, if he’d been cleverer, he’d never have taken that poisoned dagger in the first place. It was supposed to be a friendly sparring match, but the guard he’d been paired up against was one of his father’s hand-picked elites, and had other plans. His father hadn’t missed the action, of course, but used it as an object lesson to his son to never let his guard down, all while clasping the man on his shoulder for his ingenuity. 

Nathaniel knew his father was right, he was always right, but--did Nathaniel really have to always assume people would try to humiliate him like that? The poison had been bad enough he could barely stand once it took hold, and it was in public, too.

He still remembered the jeering of the soldiers, and his father’s amused smirk. 

Shame consumed him, for failing his father like that. He couldn’t let that happen again, but emotions were getting the better of him, and he wouldn’t fail his father twice in a day by letting his eyes water. 

He focused instead on the various jars his mother had, carefully organized around her study. Each had a distinct smell of their own, combining to form a poignant aroma that always made his nostrils twitch. Thankfully, his mother had opened her jar of elfroot poultice, and the pleasant smell of elfroot largely drowned out the others. 

“Can you tell me more about what you’re feeling?” his mother asked gently. 

“It’s not so bad,” Nathaniel stiffly replied. 

His mother chuckled, and for a moment Nathaniel’s heart clenched--was he being mocked?--but her kind smile smoothed his fears. “Oh, my little cub.”

“Mum,” Nathaniel protested, annoyed. “I’m 13.”

“Big cub, then,” she insisted solemnly. “I need you to be a little more specific than that so I can know what to do about the poison.”

“Ah. It’s--it burns. I guess I feel a little sick, too.”

“Dizzy? Lightheaded?” Blast it, how did she know? Unable to hide the truth from his mother, Nathaniel nodded, embarrassed at having his weakness on display. “Well then, I know what we’re working with now. I’ll get together the antidote. Shouldn’t take me long.”

She said that, but Nathaniel wasn’t sure he could remain stoic against the pain that long, and preferred a quicker solution. “Can’t you just cut the wound more and drain the poison?” he demanded. “You did that last time.”

His mother chuckled, tapping him on the nose. “That’s a different poison, li-my cub. Sometimes, there are poisons you just need to drain, and both elfroot and your body can fight it off. But others, like this one?” she tapped his side, and he noticed the area looked highly discolored, by this point, and nothing like the bruising he’d expect. “Sometimes, you need to counteract it before the healing can begin.” 

* * *

The farmer had surprisingly good aim, Nathaniel had to give him that much. He saw the arc of that thick globule of spit as if in slow motion, sighing internally and forcing himself not to reflexively dodge as it splattered messily against his chestplate. 

There was a frozen moment, when the farmer realized what he’d done, and his family and the farm hands stared in horror. He could practically see their fearful thoughts, painted clear as day over their faces. It was him, a _Howe_ , the former Arl’s son. Maybe no longer a noble, but still powerful. And a Warden, at that. Would he retaliate?

Unruffled, he brushed the spit off, meeting the farmer’s eyes, hoping relentless calm in the face of anger would do the trick. “As I was saying--”

No such luck, unfortunately, as his face turned a shade of purple. “ _Fuck_ what you were-” the farmer snarled.

“ _Harold_!” one of the farmers - his wife? - hissed, roughly grabbing him by the arm and shaking it, before turning to hurriedly bow in Nathaniel’s direction. “Apologies, mi’lord, he don’t mean nothing by it-”

“Andraste’s tits I don’t--” the angry farmer growled, cut off by a harder jerk from the woman.

“What happened, here?” Nathaniel asked, his tone of authority arresting their attention for the moment.

“Your fat-” the angry farmer began.

“It was _wolves,_ my lord,” one of the stablehands cut in. “Our wall fell, an’ they got in, and killed one of our cows. We was just tryin’ to figure out what to do bout it.”

“I’m not a lord. Warden is fine,” Nathaniel corrected her gently.

“I only have two left now, thanks to your father,” the angry farmer shouted. “How am I supposed to make a living if they keep dying?”

Nathaniel eyed him curiously. “My dead father set wolves on your cows?”

For a moment, awkward, jarring silence fell, the man gaping at him as he struggled to find words to retort.

“My lord, he’s referring to-to a couple years ago,” one of the younger men explained, not meeting Nathaniel’s eyes. Tense shoulders, afraid--he, too, feared what the former noble would do. Nathaniel wondered if those looks would ever go away. “During the Blight his men came through these parts. Claimed he needed the meat for his soldiers, to fight the darkspawn. Took most of our livestock.”

Understanding dawned. Sympathy filled Nathaniel’s eyes, as he slowly surveyed the damage. “And with hungry wolves still on the prowl, and what looks like a collapsed wall, you’ve slowly been bleeding your livelihood ever since.”

Even the farmer seemed taken aback, nodding stiffly. “That’s right, my lord.”

“Warden,” he reminded him, but the man only sneered. “Well, then, the solution is obvious, isn’t it?”

  
  


Nathaniel hefted the last rock in place, a heavy flat piece appropriate as a topstone. It had taken the efforts of two of the farm hands just to bring it over. Much of the wall had collapsed, whether by erosion or weather or some event, Nathaniel didn’t know. But over the course of the day, they’d managed to build it stronger, and better. The farm hands had all tired in waves, taking breaks as appropriate. But Nathaniel was a Warden, and needed no such rest, working tirelessly for hours now to set this wall right. 

A polite cough behind him got his attention, and he turned to see the farmer he supposed was the wife of the angry one. She held out a waterskin, and he gratefully took it, taking a quick drink.

“I never caught your name,” he told her, lobbing it back.

“Maria, Warden,” she said politely, clearly resisting the urge to incline her head. “Thanks for--thanks. You didn’t have to do this, you know. This, this ain’t your fault. My Harold was being unfair.”

Nathaniel chuckled. “Was he?”

“Pardon my saying, but your father was an ass. But. All I hear about Nathaniel Howe says you helped save us from another wave of darkspawn,” Maria said frankly. “And I’m grateful for that. I also know if people blamed me for what my pa done, I’da been run out of town long ago. It ain’t right, what Harold said. You’re a good man. I’m sorry.”

Nathaniel smiled faintly, pleased. “Thank you, my lady, but weren’t you just telling me you shouldn’t apologize for others?”

“Well--that’s--different...” she stuttered, trailing off and smiling ruefully. 

Nathaniel shook his head. “It’s true that at the end of the day, we’re all responsible for ourselves.” He shifted the rock into a better position and sealing more mortar into place. “But I don’t prefer to live in a world where I’m helpless against the evils I see. So much more so, when they came from someone-” a thread of emotion caught his throat, but he shoved it down. “Someone I’d once loved and admired. I can’t help feel at least a little responsible for his actions.” Satisfied, he took a step back, looking over his work. Once it dried, the wall would hold for decades, and the farmer’s livestock would be a little safer.

One more family that could have a bit more peace of mind.

He turned to smile at the woman, offering a short bow. “The way I see it, my father was a poison on this land. And whenever I see an opportunity to counteract the damage he caused, I’m going to take it.”


	3. Gentle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While scouting ahead in the Deep Roads, Sigrun takes an injury and Nathaniel convinces her to let him help.

“You’re such a worrywort, Nathaniel,” Sigrun chided with exasperation, her voice tense with the effort to be both quiet and upbeat. They were safe, for the moment, holed up in a cavern off the side of the main tunnel, dimly lit by the glow of mushrooms. But there was no guarantee that safety would last, and excessive noise might draw attention. “Lighten up!”

Nathaniel sighed. “Sigrun, I’m quite certain your entire side is split open.”

“Please, this is nothing!” she protested. Her expression was cheerful as ever, but there was a strain to it that betrayed her. She was clearly in pain, whatever she claimed. Despite that, she continued waving off his attempts to inspect the wound she’d taken. Unfortunately, despite their efforts to remain hidden, their scouting had tripped the attention of a large hunting party of vicious, oversized deepstalkers. They’d gotten away, but not before Sigrun had taken a bad injury she wouldn’t let Nathaniel see clearly. “You think this is bad, you should have seen-”

“Will you please just let me take a look at it?” 

“We’re back in the Deep Roads, Nathaniel, you’re putting us at risk by stopping here,” she chided him. “C’mon, the commander needed us to scout, so let’s get a - ah - move on already!”

Sweat was clearly soaking her features, but evidently nothing - not even an actively bleeding gash - could bring Sigrun’s spirits down right now. Normally, Nathaniel admired this trait in her, but at the moment, he was primarily concerned for his friend.

“I can _help_ , Sigrun.”

A rare spark of frustration appeared in her eyes. “And I’m telling you, it’s _fine_ , Nathaniel, we’re wasting time!”

Her stubborn face warned him this effort was doomed to failure, so he considered for a moment, and switched tactics. “I promise I’ll be gentle.”

Caught off guard, Sigrun had to stop herself from laughing, eyes dancing as she grinned appreciatively in his direction. “Oh come on, Nate, this isn’t my first time, you know.”

Nathaniel’s face stayed smooth. “And such things are always better when you have a friend to help.”

She actively slapped a hand over her mouth to stop herself from laughing, which was good, as it gave Nathaniel a much better angle to see the extent of her injury. “Do you even know what you’re doing? You seem new to this,” she demanded, lips still quirking.

“Do you doubt my bedside manners?”

“I’ve seen you in a fight, Nathaniel, I’m afraid you’ll be too rough for me.”

“I promise you, I have very gentle hands,” Nathaniel assured her solemnly. 

“Dexterous too, I’ll bet,” she agreed, waggling her eyebrows theatrically. 

Nathaniel inclined his head in agreement. “I’ve yet to hear a complaint about my ministrations.”

At that, Sigrun broke, chuckling despite herself and wincing. “Ugh, you win that round,” she conceded. 

“Good. Now move your arm.” 

Grumbling, Sigrun did so, finally giving Nathaniel clear access to inspect her wound, nearly hissing in displeasure at what he saw.

“This will probably need mage healing in the end,” Nathaniel noted calmly, rummaging through his pack.

“Great. Fine. Go run and get Anders then,” Sigrun said with a sigh.

Surprised, Nathaniel glanced up at her. She didn’t really think he’d abandon her so easily, did she? But there was a hunch to her shoulders, a furtiveness to her eyes that suggested otherwise. She’d never admit she feared the Deep Roads, or worse, dying alone within them, but it was clear all the same. “Nonsense. I can help patch this wound, and then you’ll be well enough to walk with me to get to Anders.”

“Nathaniel, c’mon, you don’t have to do that,” she protested.

“I want to do this, and I have plenty of poultice.”

“But…” Sigrun trailed off, looking guilty. “We don’t have that much. We need to save what we have for an emergency.”

“A wounded friend _is_ an emergency,” Nathaniel disagreed, setting about carefully cleaning her wound, checking for traces of poison. “Besides, that’s why we have Anders around, anyway.”

Sigrun snorted. “You know he doesn’t carry any poultice in his pack, right? He emptied it just so he could fill it with cat food for Ser Pounce-a-lot.”

Nathaniel sighed in exasperation, though at least that explained how the cat was staying fed and healthy on this expedition. Really, that man should know better than to bring a cat to the Deep Roads, of all places. “Regardless. I can do this, and saving you is well worth the trouble. Now, can you lift up your cuirass anymore?”

“You could at least buy a girl an ale first,” Sigrun complained, complying all the same.

Nathaniel chuckled, but didn’t take the bait. He knew Sigrun was one of the toughest fighters he’d seen, but he was careful all the same even as he applied the poultice, gently treating her wound.

“You’re actually pretty good at this,” Sigrun conceded after a moment. “Never took you for the type.”

“My mother taught me a thing or too.”

“Huh.” Sigrun winced, and Nathaniel hesitated, but continued more carefully. “Why hasn’t that come up before?”

Nathaniel considered, and sighed. “Old habits die hard, I suppose,” he admitted. “I was always embarrassed to have wanted to learn, and hid what my mother taught me. My father always told me that men were supposed to be tough and fierce, warriors that protected. But healing, that was a _gentle_ art - meant for _women_.”

Sigrun snorted. “What, seriously? Sounds like a load of bronto shit. Do surfacers really believe that?”

Nathaniel shook his head. Finishing with the paste, he pressed elfroot leaves to cover it before moving onto the final bandaging. “It’s uncommon. Women are more likely to pledge themselves to the Chantry, and such skills are often trained as a part of that calling. Other than that, though, my father was odd even among nobility for that one. Wish I’d realized it sooner.”

“Huh. Well. Can’t say I’m not glad you’re as tough as you are, Nathaniel, but - right now? Pretty glad you’re gentle too.”

Tying off the last of her bandages, Nathaniel met her eyes, seeing kindness and gratitude. Pride welled up in him, for a job well done, in a skill he’d so rarely had cause to celebrate--or be celebrated _for_. He inclined his head in thanks. “Me too, Sigrun. Me too.”


	4. Carve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nathaniel watches a bow being carved, where he is joined (and pestered) by Prince Sebastian Vael

Precise, quick chops filled the air with a pleasant knocking and the smell of freshly cut cedar. Nathaniel watched with fascination as the bowyer maneuvered the long wood block, clamping it into a new position, only to begin again at expertly chopping down its length, the shape of the recurve just beginning to manifest. 

“Wondered if I’d find you out here,” a pleasant, lilting voice greeted him. Nathaniel looked up and respectfully bowed his head as the youngest Starkhaven prince walked up to him, an indolent smile plastered over his features as usual. 

“Did you need me for something, your highness?” Nathaniel asked, hoping the answer would be no. Back home, he was heir to an arling - for now, at least - and had a prestige and presence of his own right. Here in the Free Marches, though, he was simply a squire. And as a squire serving Ser Rodolphe, it was of course his duty to attend to the needs of the royal court, which included obeying orders of its princes. 

Even if he was supposed to be allowed to enjoy his restday.

Sebastian smirked faintly, turning to watch the bowyer work. “Second time I’ve seen you watch this. Are you a carver, squire Nathaniel?” 

Too well-trained to openly sigh, Nathaniel turned his attention back to the bowyer as well. “No, your highness.” Hopefully, short and simple answers would bore the prince, and he’d move on.

No such luck, unfortunately. He'd rarely caught the prince's attention thus far, trying to seem rather too boring for his more excessive lifestyle. But every so often the prince got curious about Nathaniel, and Nathaniel usually had little choice but to oblige. “So what is it that fascinates you so? Is it just the archery thing? I’ve been hearing rumors about maids and servants having to duck skewered fruits falling from the walls more and more of late.”

Nathaniel winced, feeling the threat hidden in those words. _“Humor me in this, and I won’t get you in trouble with your knight master._ ” 

Ser Rodolphe and his father both disapproved of archery, considering it a coward’s way of waging war. But Elsa - no, he was a squire, he had to be formal now, _Elspeth Cousland_ even in his thoughts - had shown him the basics before he left, and he thought it would be a funny surprise to come back as good of a shot as she was. 

He missed her _._ Their letters back and forth, frequent though they were, only served to increase his nostalgia, but he had a significant few years left he'd be serving as a squire. It would be a while before he'd be able to see his home, again. Or her.

Archery was, admittedly, a way to feel more connected to her.

In the process of practicing, to his great surprise, Nathaniel had discovered he really did have a knack for archery. He had taken to training as frequently as he could manage without tipping his knight master off. There was something pleasing about the precision involved, a thousand details all lined up for a moment of singular focus. The satisfaction in hitting a tiny target from so far away. 

“It’s a little of both, your highness,” Nathaniel finally admitted, casting a glance to make sure his knight master was nowhere near. “Part of it is just me trying to learn more about archery. I like knowing all the parts that go into making a good bow. To understand, exactly, how one is made and perfected.” 

“Hoping it will make you a better archer?”

“Can’t hurt, anyway.”

Sebastian leaned back, considering, his piercing blue eyes dancing with humor, though Nathaniel wasn't sure of the source. Himself, most likely. Perhaps the prince felt threatened? Sebastian was an archer himself, and a fairly decent shot, from what little Nathaniel had seen. And of course, because he was a prince, Ser Rodolphe was far more measured in his opinions on the art in the prince's presence. “Hmm. Suppose I can see that. And the other part?”

Nathaniel shrugged. “There’s something satisfying about watching wood being shaped. Clever hands taking a raw form and carving away its imperfection. Sanding away it’s rough edges. It’s moving to watch him shape it from such a rough stick of wood to a tool of devastating precision.”

Sebastian chuckled. “Are we still talking about the bow?”

Nathaniel glanced at him sidelong, but had to smirk. It was times like this that Sebastian reminded him of Thomas. Annoying, to be sure, and occasionally embarrassing with his antics. But there was a good side, as well. Friendly, sociable, open and persistent. And a lot of fun at parties, apparently. He wondered how the prince would react to teasing, especially when he’d been so persistently pestering Nathaniel. “Careful, your highness. Insights like those will make people think you’re more than just a layabout.”

At this, Sebastian openly laughed, clapping Nathaniel on the back. “Well now, can’t have that. So I guess I’ll make you a deal--I’ll keep your secret, if you keep mine.”

Nathaniel turned more fully to the prince, dipping his head in a nod, grinning faintly. “Deal, your highness.”


	5. Bare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While travelling with Nathaniel Howe, Elspeth Cousland wakes to discover him missing. Stumbling upon him swimming in the lake, bare chested, leaves the poor noble rather flustered.
> 
> Indulgent? Perhaps. But as of time of writing, it's the election, we could all use some lighthearted fluff.  
> Also I've probably done too many deep character studies of Nathaniel at this point, and could use some fluffy teasing.  
> This isn't non canonical to Ties that Bind, but it's definitely not in sync with the current timeline. 
> 
> Tags: Shirtlessness. Does that need a content warning? I'm not sure.

Elspeth Cousland awoke with a start, nightmares interrupting her slumber. The full moon flooded the area with light, helping to chase the shadows away, and she took stock around her. They’d disguised their camping spot, needing to remain as incognito as possible, but she could still make out that Nathaniel’s bed roll was empty. Concerned, she slipped out. For safety’s sake, they weren’t supposed to split up, and now he’d just left?

It was never easy to track in moonlight but the soft ground was forgiving and Nathaniel clearly hadn’t been trying to hide his tracks. Even as the noble approached the lake, she heard sounds of swimming and relaxed slightly. She stepped through the shrub into the clearing, laying eyes on him swimming in the water. He surged from the water, and she spent a damnable moment with her breath stolen away. Maker. _Maker_. Moonlight glistened over the bare curves of his muscles, shoulders rippling with the wiry grace of an archer’s well-earned musculature. 

For a moment, she was frozen, unable to speak or to call out, the image of Nathaniel sliding through water burning itself into her brain beyond all hope of dislodging. _Stop lusting after him, you creep!_ she snarled at herself, finally forcing herself to action. “Nathaniel,” she called out, and he whirled to stare in surprise. “Didn’t mean to walk up and spy,” she continued apologetically. “But weren’t you the one who got all worried about either of us wandering off alone? I can look away if you want to get out.”

He chuckled, leaned back in the water. “It’s fine. Stay, if you like. Then I’ll know you’re not off causing all kinds of trouble I have to fix.” 

She snorted, but obliged, making her way to the pier. “So what prompted this midnight bath?” 

“Wanted to clear my head,” he conceded.

“Bad dreams?” she guessed.

“Of a sort.” He dipped back under the water then, cutting off her chance to ask further clarification. Fair enough; she shouldn’t be prying. 

Elsa slipped off her boots and settled on the edge, intending to dip her legs in and immediately regretting it. “Ach! That’s freezing.” 

“Yes,” he agreed wryly, swimming closer. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but it’s the dead of night.”

Elsa shook her head. “I guess if you’re a thick skinned Grey Warden, this probably is refreshing.” She stole a glance at him again, which was a mistake, and she found herself wishing a cloud would just cover the damned moon, or he’d dip back under. Her cheeks flushed.

Surely it was from the cold night air.

“It helps,” he said simply, gently treading water. He seemed disinclined to conversation, so she fell agreeably silent.

In theory, she should keep a watch out, but as a Grey Warden, Nathaniel just had better all around senses than her. There was very little she’d notice before him. But lacking motivation to keep scanning for threats, she was left with little to focus on, other than him, and her eyes kept sliding back.

He’d always been good looking, but since coming back from Starkhaven, Nathaniel had gotten cursed _attractive_. No wonder Velanna and Anders had both started crushing on him.

 _He knows I’m here, so it’s not creepy that I’m staring_ , she justified to herself. She’d thought his eyes were still closed, but by his sudden chuckle, she knew she’d been caught. 

“Should I read anything into your stares, my lady?”

“You’re very pretty,” Elsa said solemnly, lips quirking. ‘You hardly need me telling you so.”

“Oh? I’m surprised you of all people think so - I’m told I share many features with my father.”

She grimaced. She wasn’t unaware, but still. It wasn’t a fun reminder. “Trust me, you wear them better. Much better.”

“Was that praise, from you? I must have misheard,” he said, sounding irritatingly pleased with himself. In revenge, she kicked a small splash of water at him and he spluttered slightly. He stood up, water only deep enough to cover him to the hips. He crossed his arms and shot her an exasperated look, to which she grinned back.

“Don’t compliment fish from me. It’s bad for your health.”

He shook his head in amusement. “I wasn’t fishing,” he protested. 

“Lies,” she teased. 

“...I was fishing,” he conceded, smirk flashing. “And _you_ were staring.”

“Lies,” she repeated primly, not bothering to sound at all convincing. 

“You’re...still staring,” he pressed, more softly.

She flushed deeper, rogue instincts kicking in. “And you’re shamelessly flexing, you peacock!”

He snorted dismissively, but obligingly uncrossed his arms. Elsa leaned back onto the pier, no longer trusting her gaze, and stared at the night sky instead. She heard him drifting closer, and her heart beat a little faster. She should just walk away, right? She had no real excuse to linger here, whatever Nathaniel had said. A small surge of water sounded, Nathaniel had leaned against the piles quite near her head. 

Well, there was no point in running now; it would be rude. Nathaniel clearly wanted to make conversation. Probably just to torture her, because he was a real ass sometimes.

 _A Cousland does their duty. They also own up to their mistakes._ “Sorry,” she forced out, eyes firmly fixed on the sky above. “I’ll stop staring.”

“I don’t mind,” he repeated, still chuckling, and she rolled her eyes. Of course he didn’t, this was humiliating for her. Maker. The amount of raw jeering she’d have to endure after this was making her wince to consider. “How long has it been, that you’re willing to stare at even _me_?” 

_Ass_. Elspeth swung blindly behind her, but he caught her wrist with ease, disrupting her efforts to appropriately retaliate. Still, with such a convenient out he was giving her, it would be rude not to take it. “Court life is rather stifled in that regard,” she conceded reluctantly, breathing a laugh. “Not many nobles prance around shirtless.”

“Fair enough, my lady.”

Silence fell, and Elsa found herself grateful to be staring up at the moon, resisting the temptation to let her eyes wander. “Aren’t you getting cold?”

“Trying to get me swimming so you can stare again, my lady?” he teased.

She groaned. “I was rather hoping you’d drown right now, actually.”

He laughed, then, genuine humor taking him. It was a deeply pleasant sound, all the more pleasurable for its rarity. “Well, I’d hate to disappoint, but you’re not wrong about the cold, so I’m getting out,” he warned her. “If you’re hoping for more opportunities to stare.”

“ _Ass_ ,” she seethed again, though she obligingly shut her eyes and turning away from him and his clothes. He surged behind her, splashing her with water to her consternation. He rustled with clothes, and in a moment a cloth was dropped on her face.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to splash you.” As if that was an explanation. As if he was entirely trying to be helpful at this moment.

She sighed. _So predictable._ “This is your shirt, isn’t it.”

“I got water on you. It would be rude not to offer you a dry cloth to wipe it off.”

“This is your shirt, _isn’t it, Nathaniel._ ” 

“A shirt is a dry cloth.”

She groaned. “I’ll never live this down, will I?” 

“Maker, I hope not,” he agreed, at this point openly snickering.

* * *

The next morning she awoke to the familiar sounds of a crackling fire, the delightful, invigorating smell of steeping tea, and Nathaniel exercising in a clear space. Pouring herself a cup was distracting enough that it took her until her first sip to realize what had changed.

That fucker was practicing _shirtless._

“You must be _joking_ ,” she demanded, aghast.

He paused briefly, finishing his set before grabbing a cloth to dry off. His calm face was the soul of innocence, but not for a moment was she fooled. “It’s a warm morning, my lady, and I sweat through shirts too easily when I practice.”

“Uh huh,” she demanded, unimpressed, staring him down. 

He raised an eyebrow at her, his stoic expression not cracking for a moment. “So. Still up for a sparring match?”

She chuckled, a smirk twitching to her face. “You’re going to regret this.”

Amusement danced in grey eyes all too readably. “Oh, I doubt that.”

“You’re on, then. _Exhibitionist._ ”

“Show me what you’ve got. _Voyeur._ ”


	6. Buzz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dealing with some recent and unwelcome news, Nathaniel agrees to a night out drinking with Sebastian and his groupies.

“You’ve  _ got _ to try this one, apparently Fereldens  _ love _ it,” Sebastian enthused, sliding a tankard over to Nathaniel. 

He didn’t trust that gleeful look in Sebastian’s eyes, or the palpable anticipation from his two friends. Evidently they’d planned this, though he hadn’t seen when. Just that Sebastian had gone to order them drinks, which Nathaniel had assumed was so he could flirt more with the pretty waitress. Warily he took the offered tankard, glancing inside suspiciously. “Why, is it full of dog hair?”

Sebastian laughed as if he made a fantastic joke, deep enough in his drink that everything was hilarious to him. His two other friends laughed as well, more following Sebastian’s lead than because they truly thought it was funny. 

Hm. What were their names again? He knew Sebastian had mentioned them, but the buzz was getting to Nathaniel.

Ah well, it’d be rude to ask now.

With a sigh, knowing he couldn’t refuse a challenge and certain he was about to regret it, Nathaniel shrugged, throwing back his head and taking a long, healthy pull. This proved something of a mistake; it was a thick mead, meant to be sipped rather than gulped, and as a result burned his throat on the way down. 

Too self controlled to cough, Nathaniel spent a long moment just processing what had been done to his throat, stomach and brain, all while Sebastian and his groupies waited with bated breath. It was incredibly bitter and hit hard, but the flavors were complex and varied. There must be some actual Ferelden flavors in there, too, as it made him unexpectedly nostalgic for home. 

“Well, that...actually is very good,” he had to admit, to Sebastian’s surprised but delighted laughter, and his hanger-on’s open shock. He helped himself to a more measured sip.

“I  _ knew  _ it, pay up, of  _ course _ the Ferelden would like Chasind Sack Mead,” Sebastian said, grinning smugly.

“How can you  _ drink _ that?” one of Sebastian’s hanger-ons asked, reluctantly handing over silver. Nathaniel tried to clear the buzz and remember. Some third son of some lord. A real collection of all the younger sons of their families, desperate for attention and not particularly fussed if that attention was good. 

“What’s not to like? Nathaniel mused, taking a more generous pull. “It hits like a mabari charge and seems like it’d make an Orlesian faint.”

At this, the table roared with laughter, one going so far as to slap his knees. That one was rather obvious, he supposed; who didn’t like a good spot of “Orlesians are terrible” banter?

“See? Told you he was alright,” Sebastian said proudly, slapping Nathaniel on the back as if claiming him. 

Nathaniel supposed he should feel insulted by that mild patronization. But quite despite himself, the affirmation wormed itself into his heart.  _ Maker, I’m lonelier than I thought, _ he admitted to himself, a rueful grin creasing his features. 

Nathaniel wondered what it said about him, that Sebastian had wanted to bring him along. Sebastian was well known as a trouble maker, by this point, with something of a reputation for never getting enough drink or brothels. Nathaniel had no such shadow hanging over him, he knew. At most, he was an annoyance to the servants for practicing archery whenever Ser  Rodolphe  gave him free time, but that was hardly a vice the court held against him. 

Was that why Sebastian had dragged him out - bond with a fellow archer? Or was he being more canny? Nathaniel was only a squire, with little standing of his own right in court. And it was doubtful he was doing this for canny, political reasons, considering his father had just recently made Thomas his heir--

Nathaniel took another heavy swig of the drink.

“Haha! Looks like we’re going to see the corrupt side of Squire Nathaniel tonight after all!” Sebastian enthused cheerfully. 

“Is that why you brought me along?” Nathaniel mused, feeling the pleasant burn tingle through his limbs, making him bolder with the prince than he might otherwise be. 

“Gotta admit, I’m curious about that too,” one of Sebastian’s lackeys teased. “You usually don’t suffer friends that are prettier than you.” Was he even aware he was insulting himself, in that? Or was he just so used to having to be second fiddle? 

“Hurley, don’t be ridiculous. Look at that nose. Now look back at me. There’s no competition,” Sebastian drawled smugly. 

“That’s for certain,” Nathaniel agreed pleasantly. Sebastian’s smile slipped slightly, his expression uncertain. “Few could match those blue eyes,” he followed up, realizing that insulting a prince of Starkhaven probably wasn’t a wise move.

His cocky, confident grin returned in full force. “Why, Squire Nathaniel, should I be concerned for my chastity, right now?” Sebastian teased. 

Nathaniel snorted, taking another healthy sip, disappointingly finishing the tankard off. “You’re about 6 years too late to be worried about that, I’ll wager,” he teased. 

The table roared with laughter  _ again _ for some reason, and Sebastian grinned widely, enjoying that particular form of banter. 

“Maker, I never pictured you had a humorous bone in your body, Nate,” one of lackeys commented, grinning widely. 

“Ser Rodolphe does not approve of humor,” Nathaniel remarked dryily. And once again, the table laughed.  _ Why _ ? Nathaniel considered. Did it matter? He was, apparently, entertaining them, even if it was likely they were used to being easily amused. But there was something flattering in the way they all seemed so curious about him. 

And he couldn’t exactly deny that he’d been feeling lonely. 

Another drink appeared before him, and he eyed Sebastian suspiciously, who looked the soul of innocence. Nathaniel shrugged, took another gulp to their cheers, and smirked back. And with that, it was like a dam had been broken. Nathaniel felt himself loosening up. He certainly was concerned about their reputation--all of them were known as something of layabouts, all too fond of drink and brothels, but still. They seemed like a fun enough bunch, and--well, he could use some friends right now.

“Alright, you two, I’ve a challenge for you - I need you to find the most ass kicking ale this place has, and we’re all going to see who loses it first,” Sebastian drawled at his two lackeys. “Give me a moment with the new one.”

The two complied with a shared grin, wandering off to the bar, while Sebastian’s eyes fell on him. 

Not that Nathaniel would cede initiative. “So why  _ did  _ you invite me out tonight?”

Sebastian chuckled. “Maker, do you realize how intimidating you are, sometimes?”

Surprised by such a candid admission, Nathaniel lifted his eyebrows, studying the prince more closely. “How do you mean?” he asked carefully.

Sebastian waved his hand ambiguously. “I mean, all that...seriousness. Hard worker. Polite to a fault. Unruffled and unmoved. Above it all.”

Nathaniel felt a smirk tug at his lips. “Should I be worried about  _ my _ chastity right now?” he asked with amusement.

“Don’t be an ass. You’re far too flat to be my type,” Sebastian chided him. He took a considering drink. “Anyway. Turns out, there’s a pretty fun guy beneath all that...stoic excellence. And I invited you because...you’re sort of part of the club now.”

“What...oh.” Realization hit him. The  _ spare _ club.

“I mean no insult,” Sebastian said quietly. “I just...thought you could use a distraction tonight.”

Nathaniel considered his drink with a sigh. “You remind me of him, you know,” he said quietly. 

“Who?”

“Thomas. The new heir. Younger son, heavy drinker,  _ young _ drinker.”  _ Desperate seeker of attention, occasionally a bit of a shit. _

“Ah. I’m, not sure how to take that. Did you get along with him?”

Nathaniel shook his head. “Sometimes. Usually not. He could find his fun anywhere, though, too. Unlike him, though, you’re...a good person.”

“Oh? That almost sounds more insulting,” Sebastian mused. 

Nathaniel smirked faintly. “You care about people, whatever you claim, prince. Thomas...doesn’t.”

Sebastian chuckled faintly. “Well, I’ll take the compliment for what it is, then. I’d rather not remind you of...what happened, tonight.”

“Thanks,” Nathaniel said quietly. “I don’t...hold it against him, though. He wanted this. Whereas I…” he trailed off. “I suppose I just wanted to make my father proud.”

Sebastian gave him a keen look, then. “If he’s not proud of you, then he’s an idiot.”

For a moment, anger surged, wanting to defend his father. But he let that wash away. “Thanks, your highness. And no. You’re not that much like Thomas after all. But I have to warn you, if you vomit on my shoes tonight, I might punch you.”

Sebastian threw back his head and laughed. “Duly noted.”


	7. Tremble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nathaniel, Thomas, and Elspeth Cousland all train under the watchful eye of Rendon Howe. Things don't go well, and Nathaniel has to comfort Elsa when she doesn't quite meet her mentor's expectations.

The steady beat of sharp, wooden clacking filled the air. Lined up against their respective targets, Nathaniel, Thomas, and Elspeth all relentlessly pressed through their dagger drills, all under the watchful eye of Rendon Howe. 

The sets were easy enough, for Nathaniel, and well familiar. Not that he’d settle for less than excellence, but the patterns had become rote. He hardly needed to think to strike out with precision, wooden practice daggers striking for the vital targets on the dummy in rapid succession. In this, he knew he was to serve as something of an example for both Elspeth and Thomas, who were less experienced than himself. 

He hardly needed to focus on his own target; he could do this set blindfolded, and had. Mindful of his father’s expectations that he help guide the two younger rogues, his gaze drifted over to Elspeth. 

Her form was sharp, pace impressively rapid. He considered cautioning her to slow down, but she maintained such a steady rhythm he thought better of it. There was a time and place for deliberately practicing slow movements, but if she could manage such speed without faltering, then all the better for her, in this case.

She was getting good, quite quickly, and for the first time, Nathaniel felt the distant squeeze of competition. He’d have to keep an eye on her, she might well catch up to him some day.

Thomas was a bit of a different story. He was far more given to anger, frustrations quickly building on itself, his strikes off mark and becoming worse over time. Still, his blows were powerful, and if his pace was inconsistent, he’d at least been improving. Nathaniel briefly considered offering helpful guidance or encouraging words, but Thomas tended not to react well to either, when it came from his older brother. 

His father clapped, calling them attention, eyes panning over them. “Nathaniel, excellent work as always,” he acknowledged, smiling and nodding at his son. Pride welled in his heart, but he knew better than to smile, as his father would chide him. He moved onto Thomas, smiling warmly. “Thomas, you’ve demonstrated tremendous aptitude as well. You’ve a real talent for this. That said, watch your grip - I noticed it slip a few time. And mind that you don’t let your emotions get the better of you, or you’ll make yourself predictable. Still, Nathaniel better watch out for you, or you’ll catch up in no time. 

Thomas grinned widely, turning to his older brother with undeniable glee in his eyes. Nathaniel smirked in response, shaking his head. “ _I_ _t’ll never happen”,_ he mouthed teasingly. The moment Rendon’s back was turned, his brother stuck out his tongue at Nathaniel. 

“Elspeth,” Rendon began, his tone immediately sounding far more disappointed. He hesitated, and smiled. “You’ve grown a great deal, my dear. I know how hard you work. Keep at it, and I’m sure you’ll get the hang of this some day.”

Even Nathaniel winced at that one. Elspeth bowed her head, mumbling something Nathaniel couldn’t catch, and with a satisfied nod, Rendon moved on. 

* * *

The sun was beginning to make its descent when he found her, returned to the practice yards from that morning. Sweat soaked and exhausted, she’d clearly been at this for hours; he’d wondered where she’d disappeared to. He walked up, seating himself on the bench and other than a quick sidelong glance, she didn’t acknowledge his presence, still working hard on the forms. 

There was a wildness to her eyes, now, but even so, that didn’t translate to her strikes, which were as precise as this morning, if slightly slower, and more hesitant. Nathaniel sharpened his gaze; clearly, his father had seen something amiss, though he didn’t know what, yet. 

Her pace became more frantic, pitched, before finally a particularly vicious strike caused her to lose her grip entirely on the practice dagger, sending it flying. 

Quick as a viper, Nathaniel snatched it from midair, turning to raise an eyebrow at her. She gave him a rueful sigh.

“Sorry, Nate,” she breathed, chastised. “I know, I know. Never lose your grip on the weapon. Maker!” She came to collapse on the bench, and soon began to tremble. 

“What’s wrong?” Nathaniel asked quietly. 

“Nothing,” she lied, and he retorted with a disbelieving snort. “...a lot of things,” she admitted in a moment, trembles increasing. 

Nathaniel ruffled her hair, coaxing. “So tell me about them.”

“I just, I thought I was doing well today. I really thought I’d mastered that form!” she protested, sitting up, eyes overbright with tears she struggled to hide. “What was I doing _wrong_?”

“I don’t know,” Nathaniel admitted. “You looked quite good to me.”

She hesitated, sitting up. Solicitous eyes met him, and his heart jolted in concern, all too ready to do what she asked. He shoved the feeling down. “Pah. You must’ve seen something! I don’t...I don’t know what your father thinks I’m doing wrong.”

Feeling stuck, Nathaniel shrugged helplessly. “I’m sorry, Elsa, I honestly don’t know what he saw either. I’m still learning myself. But it must have been something. Father knows what he’s doing. Maybe he’s just encouraging you to work harder?” He frowned, considering. Actually, come to think of it, he usually encouraged her exactly the opposite, not wanting her to overexert herself, in deference to her more delicate constitution.

“I know. That’s probably it,” she agreed, sounding unconvinced. “It’s just hard to know what to improve when he won’t tell me. And now you won’t tell me, because you _also_ think I’m some hopeless, silly girl, and-”

“Elsa, I don’t think that at all. I sincerely don’t know!” he protested. “Trust me, I truly want to help you. Especially because practicing alone doesn’t always help. Without a teacher correcting your bad habits, you run the risk of making them stick. But I just don’t have as good of an eye as father does.”

“Unf,” she replied eloquently, wrapping her arms around her stomach, hugging herself tightly. “I just...I don’t want to fail.”

She began trembling again, then, so Nathaniel sighed and put his arm around her, and she gratefully sank against him, fighting hard against the tears of frustration that kept threatening to spill forth. And for a long wordless moment they sat like that, Nathaniel offering what little comfort he could. It seemed to help, as her trembles lessened, and soon ceased. 

“You really think I looked ok?” she asked eventually. “I’m not a failure?” 

“You looked wonderful, Elsa. You’re very talented.”

He could feel the smile in her voice. “Thanks, Nathaniel.”

He grinned, an idea taking him. “Now, are you going to stop feeling sorry for yourself and start practicing _with_ me?”

She sat up, eyes sparkling. “That’s-that’s such a brilliant - you’d be willing?!”

“There’s a lady in distress. And something I could do to help her. How could I not oblige?”

She laughed, throwing her arms around him, before dragging him onto the practice field. And as she beamed back at him, Nathaniel had to admit to himself that he might just do anything to keep earning that smile. 


	8. Harbor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nathaniel tracks down Anders just before he sets off for Kirkwall.
> 
> This is the fic that will contradict a couple of minor (and one major) details in Ties that Bind, so consider it non “canon” to my main fic. Not that it matters, it still feels reasonable for the greater DA canon.
> 
> Individual chapter tags: Nathaniel Howe/Anders

Salt, pitch, sweat, and rotting fish made for a potent and distracting aroma; it certainly didn’t help settle Nathaniel’s already rolling stomach. Emotions were getting the better of him, he knew. He’d used to love the sight of the Amaranthine harbor - from a distance. Now, up close, he had a feeling he’d hate it forever more.

“Anders, you can’t do this,” he said quietly, trying to maintain an even tone. 

“You know I have to.” The mage trembled, body language barely hidden under his cloak. The cloak made him stand out, but it was a necessary subterfuge. Every so often, a crack appeared on his skin, blue lighting arcing through him, as if bursting through from the seams of his friend. Nathaniel clenched his fists, worried. 

Justice. Not yet settled. 

Nathaniel had stumbled on the bloody aftermath of that ambush, and tracked down the mage shortly after. Panicked, emotional, terrified, it took almost no prodding to get Anders to talk. Anders told him the story, about his Warden-Templar partner Rolan trying to kill him. His merge with Justice to save his skin. The ambush, sprung, and Anders’ desperate loss of control of his newfound powers. 

And his decision to leave the Wardens--knowing they could no longer be the safe harbor he’d once hoped.

Was Anders lying? Possibly. There were no survivors to speak in their own defense. But it had certainly looked like an ambush. Some of the newer Wardens the commander recruited, and more than a few Templars, all happening to converge on that remote location? Try as he might, Nathaniel could think of no benign explanation that would justify that.

Surely Anders had no choice. Surely he was just acting in self defense. Right? 

His fists clenched. Then again, perhaps he needed to consider how biased he was. This wasn’t the first time he’d been blinded by his attachments, unable to see the darker parts of his loved ones, hidden just below the surface. Was he just repeating his mistakes?

“Anders, come back. Please. We can talk to the commander, we can figure out-”

“Nathaniel, I _can’t_ ,” Anders wheezed. “You know there’s no place for me in the Wardens. Not anymore. You-you understand, don’t you?”

“I understand that you’re leaving,” Nathaniel pressed, emotions rippling through his voice he didn’t expect. “That you’re running away from us." He swallowed. “From me.” Anders flinched as if struck. Nathaniel held his position for a moment, clenching his fists, emotions swirling within him he couldn’t process. Couldn’t manage. “Fine. Leave then,” the rogue finally rasped, turning away, only to find himself suddenly embraced from behind. 

“Come with me,” Anders begged. 

Mouth dry, it took Nathaniel a moment to respond. “You know I won’t do that.”

“Please, Nathaniel, I’m, I’ll be all alone, and-”

“Anders!” Nathaniel burst, tensing. “Don’t ask that of me. My place is with the Wardens.”

“It doesn’t have to be, it--you wanted to be an adventuring knight, once, didn’t you? You could come with me, and--”

“And what, Anders?” Nathaniel sighed tiredly. “Spend the rest of my life running? Betraying the order just like my father did? Letting Rendon's name be the Howe everyone remembers?”

Anders pressed his forehead against Nathaniel’s back, trembling, pulling him tighter. “Please, Nathaniel. Please, come with me. I’m scared. I can’t - I can’t do this alone.”

“But you aren’t alone, are you.”

Anders flinched again, and fell silent, and for a long moment, no words were exchanged between them, the cacophony of shouting sailors, rushing water, and creaking planks a distraction and blessing both. 

“You’ve made your choice,” Nathaniel continued quietly, his voice not unkind. “And I have to make mine.”

Tears wet his back. Finally, reluctantly, Anders let him go. The moment he did, Nathaniel turned, embracing the mage tightly. “I’ll miss you,” he admitted, grateful Anders couldn’t see his face, struggling to master the troublesome burning in his eyes.

“I’ll miss you too, Nathaniel. Stay...stay safe, my…friend.”

“I will. And you.”

“And please, you have to remember to feed Ser Pounce a lot three times a day, or he’ll-”

“Anders. I’ll take care of him. Come...come visit him any time, ok?”

Finally Anders drew back, hazel eyes full of tears. “Same to you.”

Nathaniel chuckled faintly at the chide, and nodded at the mage, finally taking a step back. He boarded the boat, and soon enough, it left the harbor. 

Nathaniel waited until it was no more than a pinprick on the horizon, when he couldn’t even convince himself it wasn’t his imagination. And finally, he picked himself up, and returned home.

He still had a duty. 


	9. Keep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nathaniel returns to Vigil's Keep to receive a parcel, waiting for him. A parcel filled with nostalgic memories he thought he'd lost.
> 
> This is quite explicitly connected to my main fic, Ties that Bind. *Minor* spoilers for chapter 2.

“Mail bag, Nathaniel!” a cheerful voice rang out, causing Nathaniel to pause. He’d barely had time to remove his cloak upon returning to his room. His new room in his new, old home, Vigil’s Keep.

Kallian Tabris, Hero of Ferelden, poked her head through the still open doorway with a gleeful expression.

“Are you a courier now, commander?” he teased her with some amusement, as she invited herself in, wielding a parcel.

“Nah, but since you didn’t stop to wait for private DeLisle to give you your mail- much to her disappointment, mind - thought I’d do you the favor.”

“That, and you’re keen to hand out gifts to everyone to trick them into liking you,” Nathaniel retorted with some amusement, accepting the proffered package.

She rolled her eyes in amusement, still curiously eyeing his delivery. Nathaniel set it on his writing desk, and she took the hint, giving him a rueful but jaunty wave of farewell.

He recognized the seal; another package from Ser Rodolphe Varley. His former-knight master, whose service he left in due haste once the nasty truths about his father had reached Starkhaven. At the time, Nathaniel had assumed the rumors were all lies, and that he’d be able to return once he’d cleared his family name, but he wanted to spare his mentor the shame. He’d left most of his personal effects behind. 

Once word of Nathaniel joining the Wardens had reached Ser Rodolphe, he’d sent most of his former squire’s items over. There’d been a few notable absences, however, and so Nathaniel had a feeling he knew what lay in the parcel before him.

Items he should never have indulged himself to keep. 

Hesitation gripped him. There was no need to face this now.

He shoved the parcel to to the back of his desk, and resolved to go find Oghren. He could use a good sparring match right now.

* * *

Late that evening, Nathaniel returned to his room, a slight stumble to his steps. He was still bruised and sore from sparring, and the drinking he and Oghren had done afterwards served to numb some of the pain. Or so he thought, anyway. The parcel remained, staring at him, mocking his cowardice. 

With a sigh he pulled out his utility knife, cutting through the string and opening the package. And sure enough, as he suspected, there was his letter box. Filled to the brim with letters he’d found himself compelled to keep.

Letters from her. Elspeth Cousland.

The rough drafts of letters he’d written before composing the final version to send to her, wanting to ensure his penmanship was perfect and his words carefully thought out.

_I’ll not spend another fucking moment in your miserable company, Howe._

Her words, delivered with blazing eyes and furious tone, burned him to this day. And with the mistakes he made, the very least he owed her was respecting that wish. A chasm between them, and no hope of fixing it. 

But.

Perhaps he could allow himself at least this indulgence.

At random, he pulled a pair of letters from the stack, and began to read.

> Dear Nate,
> 
> First of all, how very dare you, good sir. Highever hounds are renowned across much of the known world, and highly prized at that. Even a Highever runt like Shadow far outstrips the motley, lazy breeds you’d find in Gwaren. I’m quite content with my new mabari’s stature and demeanor, thank you very much, and believe she’ll be a more than capable partner.
> 
> Second of all, if you’re not careful, I’m going to give Shadow something of yours and train her to attack it as regularly as possible. I am going to make an excellent mabari trainer, and your shock that one chose to bond with me is thoroughly misplaced.
> 
> Third of all, jealousy is an ugly perfume, my dear Lord Nathaniel. Be a dear and finish up your knight training already so you can come back to Ferelden and find a mabari of your own. That, or a wife. Your obvious loneliness breaks my heart, especially as you choose to take it out on me with such faithless disregard for my own delicate disposition and girlish naivety.
> 
> I know your objections before you write them. Despite your loneliness, and despite how ill suited knight training is to your vast and deep cunning skills, you still love the Free Marches. I’ve my guesses why, but I doubt you’d thank me for pointing them out. Regardless, I’m sure both the freedom and adventure of being on your own, and the exciting new vistas are compelling enough in their own right. 
> 
> I’m happy for you, truly. Am I jealous you’re having such a wonderful time now that you’re so far from Delilah and myself? Perish the thought. But please do come to visit. Surely you’re allowed time off, are you not? And yes, I can see your eyebrows furrowing already; I asked your father about coming along when he visits to check on your progress. He was very polite in his rejection; he’s not exactly willing to take the risk of letting harm come to his obviously very delicate liegelord’s daughter. The matter was thus closed. Alas, in my disappointment, I already promised Delilah to visit her in Amaranthine when your father leaves. We shall console each other with your absence. I’d rather not disappoint her, so coming to visit you is somewhat of a lost cause anyway. I certainly hope you put all of your favorite clothing in well-locked storage; not that I would harm it in a fit of girlish pique, of course.
> 
> Onto other matters. Must you keep mocking me about my would-be suitors with your polite but consistent inquiries? I’ve no desire to write of them. Yes, they continue to exist. As fast as I manage to scare some off with my charming personality and violent tendencies, new ones seem to trickle in. I’m increasingly convinced Ferelden simply has too many nobles. Perhaps that’s a good thing, though. It means that, surely, I’ll find one that can make it to a third conversation without inquiring - subtly, of course - about my portion of the Cousland inheritance. A girl can dream she means more to her suitors than status and wealth, right? And no, I can’t become a Chantry sister either. I have no wish to cloister myself, whether as a sister or a wife. I just can’t resign myself to what marriage has to offer.
> 
> Not that I disparage your own desire for it, of course! I’m sure one day you’ll find a lovely wife who dotes on you daily and rubs your feetsies whenever you need it, just as you hope. You’ll go out and have your glorious adventures, and she’ll be waiting for you at home, keeping the candles and torches lit and your massive brood of small children safe. You’ll make a wonderful husband and father, Nathaniel, and I hope whoever you finally settle on realizes how lucky she is, to have ensnared a man as wonderful as you. I hope she also realizes she’ll have two very dangerous, angry sisters to deal with if she dares hurt you in any way.
> 
> Now enough about me. How are you doing? Are you still loving Starkhaven? Please tell me all the stories you can; I crave to live vicariously through your adventures. I really think you should take this Prince Sebastian up on his offer and sneak out to revel around town. You know you miss sneaking out with Delilah and I, and to be perfectly honest, I’d feel a lot better if you had at least one corrupting influence in your life. Your knight master continues to sound very strict, esteemed though I’m sure he is. And training you to be a knight! It marvels to me that he thinks to make a warrior out of you; you’re far too clever for that sort of life.
> 
> That said, how is training? Have you taken up a shield yet and used it cunningly by bashing it into your foes? You’ve always been excellent with bladed weapons, has that skill translated to swords? Any new friends? Any new stories, or songs? Have you learned to dance, yet? Met any cute girls that have caught your eye? Do you miss us here?
> 
> By the way, you’re writing to Delilah too, right? I’m quite certain she misses you. As for me, well, I suppose it’s true that I also miss you dearly, Nathaniel. Finish up soon so I can congratulate you properly.
> 
> With fond affection,
> 
> Elsa
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> Kitten,
> 
> It is good to hear from you as always. Your last letter had a surprising dearth of stories to it, though, and I confess, I’d rather looked forward to them. Were you feeling ill, perhaps, when you wrote it? Or did training your new runt mabari exhaust you so? How goes training Shadow? I still refuse to believe you named her that sober, by the by. I confess I’m most curious how you intend to teach her the command for “quiet”, as her partner hasn’t yet learned the trick.
> 
> I swear, I tease. Your letters are always the highlight of my day, and I’m merely rather piqued that the last one was so comparatively short. Making new friends has been rather difficult, and having a few pages of wild adventure stories helps pass the time when I have break and nothing to do. I will take your advice about Sebastian into consideration. He reminds me of Thomas; he sometimes comes across as a bit of a cretin and a layabout, and unhealthily fixated on alcohol, but there’s an undeniable charm to his antics, and a kind heart buried somewhere deep within. So perhaps he reminds me of a much better version of my brother. Has the little brat stopped pursuing you yet, by the way? I know how that used to irritate you. I can only offer my apologies again on his behalf. I realize having affections thrust upon you when you don’t reciprocate them would be quite uncomfortable, and I’d not have you suffer that for all the world.
> 
> I’m disappointed you can’t come see me, but I suppose father knows best. I wouldn’t want you at risk either, not on my behalf. Perhaps I can convince my knight master to give me long enough leave that I can return home to visit; there must be some ball or fancy occasion some lord is throwing, that I can pretend is critical that I attend. Surely your father wishes you to marry at some point, would he not throw some manner of debutante ball? I’m certain such a key moment for my liegelord’s daughter would prove sufficiently prestigious my knight-master might loosen my leash, albeit temporarily. I suppose you’d have to endure the awkward flirtations of many ambitious noblemen, then, but I’d be more than happy to scare them off with my brooding presence, or whisk you away onto the dance floor if you so desired. I have, in fact, learned to dance.
> 
> As for a wife, I’m afraid I’m still a touch too picky. As the heir to Amaranthine - unless my father has removed me already - I believe father would prefer me to marry a Ferelden noblewoman, and I confess, the notion is my preference as well. This means I’m more than likely to remain a bachelor for the remainder of my squirage; hopefully all the good noblewomen won’t have been swooped up by the time I return. And, pardon me, but have maths left you so entirely? I only have one sister. One sister, and one loud and boisterous friend. Fine, one sister, and one loud, boisterous, very dear friend, both of whom I miss quite painfully.
> 
> Training goes quite well, thank you. I’m picking up many new skills, and one in particular I look forward to showing you - though I think I’ll keep it a surprise for now. And Ser Rodolphe isn’t trying to turn me into a warrior, but rather, a capable knight who can fight in a similar manner. He hopes I’ll maintain all the quickness of a rogue, and all the durability of a warrior. Unfortunately for me, this rather means a lot of training in taking a hit, and I’m reminded daily of how grateful I am to know how to make a competent poultice. 
> 
> Yes, I write to Delilah, though perhaps with shorter letters than you receive; she lacks your rather vibrant and verbose personality. She seems to be in good health, though I trust you would tell me outright if you felt otherwise? And yes, of course I miss you too, Elsa, even if my life seems much less chaotic now in your absence. Or perhaps, especially because of that. 
> 
> I can’t wait to see you again, whenever that might be. And I eagerly await your next letter, as always.
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> With deep regard,
> 
> Nathaniel

Nathaniel was chuckling in wonder by the end, happily lost in preferable nostalgia. Had she ever figured it out? He wondered; his letters hadn’t been very subtle. Then again, her teases about him finding a wife hadn’t been either; perhaps even then she was trying to gently rebuff him. He knew at times he’d recognized the foolishness of his feelings. His foolish childhood crush had waxed and waned; at times, he'd believed himself truly past that flight of fancy, though their friendship remained ever steady, until-

Well.

He supposed it didn’t matter, now.

Reality caught up with him again; Elspeth Cousland justly hated him, now, and he’d promised himself not darken her life with his shadow. There was no future for them as friends. 

Was he wounding himself to indulge so? Perhaps. But now that he’d opened this box, he wasn’t quite sure he could bear to close it again. 

He reached for another letter, rationalizing. Perhaps he’d allow himself this one, secret indulgence. He would keep these letters, and occasionally remember the friendship they once had. It was about the only thing he had left of her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by the overly talented and ridiculously wonderful https://twitter.com/LilithKBArt


	10. Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nathaniel gets mildly introspective, early in the morning. Elspeth Cousland/Nathaniel Howe.

This was becoming something of a problem.

That much was clear to Nathaniel, whose stiff morning limbs objected to his having slept all night while propped against the wall. The soreness was a stark contrast to the soft and welcome warmth currently laying against his shoulder. He shifted slightly, stretching relief into his muscles, and she murmured against him, then nestled closer. Warmth of a different kind spread through him.

Another day of traveling with Elspeth Cousland.

Another night they hadn’t quite managed to make it to their respective beds at the inn, instead electing to stay up into the wee hours of the morning, just, talking. What had they even been conversing about, this time? Nathaniel searched his memory. Humorous stories of events he’d missed while in Starkhaven. Teasing banter. A spirited, friendly debate or two. Everything and nothing, all at once.

Another morning waking before her. Waiting for her to roust, to quietly detangle herself and offer embarrassed apologies for the breach in decorum. Wondering if this would be the day it occurred to her to fear what conclusions he might draw, to draw back when she realized.

It would in theory be far better if that happened soon, Nathaniel reflected. Pessimism was certain he’d only get his heart broken soon enough. But even its excuses were beginning to run thin. He no longer saw his father, reflected in her eyes, or the fear and loathing that would momentarily accompany it. Foolish hopes, long buried, had taken such deep roots in his heart now he knew he had no hope of removing them.

He wanted to wake every morning like this. To have his arms around this woman, without shame for the past or fear of the future. He wanted to enjoy every moment they had together in the present, sincerely and without reserve.

This was becoming something of a problem.

But it was one Nathaniel had no intention of fixing.


	11. Faint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nathaniel faints in battle, waking up in Ander's infirmary. They tease each other. And maybe flirt a little. *a little*. I can't help loving UST alright. 
> 
> that said it's still not non canonical to Ties look Nate can't not flirt

“Woah, there, easy, Nate.”

Anders’ amused voice, presumably at his expense, centered Nathaniel’s attention against vertigo as he forced his mind into a semblance of consciousness. He squinted his eyes in the bright light and tried to sit up, only to struggle again at the gentle pressure on his shoulder.

“Anders, let me up, I’m fine,” Nathaniel insisted, hoping his voice sounded steady. “I need to help the commander, see to Oghren,” Anders openly laughed, then, and finally Nathaniel’s eyes started adjusting. Familiar stone walls and the sparse furnishing of the Vigil’s Keep infirmary. “Oh.” He shook his head, trying to clear it. “Everyone’s ok, then?”

“Everyone except you!” Anders informed him cheerfully, gently pressing a glowing hand on his forehead. The building headache Nathaniel had dreaded dissipated under that cooling touch.

“Thanks,” he rasped. Noting the steaming mug of tea Anders had clearly prepared, he glanced askance and gratefully sipped, wetting his parched throat. 

“I think I’ve gotten most of the damage,” Anders was informing him, as he sipped. Nathaniel hid a smile behind his mug. Anders’ normal sly demeanor had suddenly dropped for a rare bout of professionalism. Anders took healing seriously. “The arrow deep in your chest was the worst damage, but you had a number of bruises as well from that tumble.”

“I’ve told you, I can see to bruises quite easily with poultice. Save your energy, Anders,” Nathaniel chided him.

Anders waggled a disapproving finger. “And _I’ve_ told _you_ , you’re ridiculous about suffering unnecessarily. Poultices take longer, I’m a _mage_ , I can have you healed licketdy-split.” 

Ugh. Nathaniel wrinkled his nose. “Please don’t use that-” he cut himself off, nearly cursing, as a fire of mischief clearly lit in the mage’s eyes. He sighed heavily. “You’re going to use that phrase forever now, aren’t you?” Not that he needed to ask. 

“Every chance I get!” Anders confirmed cheerfully. “Maker, it is so much more fun to deal with you when you’re all fainty like this. You’re usually so much harder to crack, what with all those brooding glares and stoic grumpiness-”

“I’m not fainty,” Nathaniel objected. “And how can one even _be_ stoically grumpy, that’s a contradiction-”

“You literally fainted in battle, Nathaniel,” Anders pressed, flicking his forehead. Once again, that rare current of seriousness. “You’ve got to learn to be a little more careful.”

“This? This coming from _you_ ? I seem to recall you taunting an hurlock - a hurlock _actively_ drawing a bead on you, mind - to “suck on a fireball” while wearing nothing but cloth to protect himself!” Nathaniel grumbled, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. 

Anders’ eyebrows lifted to his hairline. “Wait, is that why you jumped in the way?”

Testing his feet against the floor, Nathaniel decided he was good to stand. He somewhat regretted that a moment later when he attempted it, but with Anders watching, he wasn’t about to let that show. He shut his eyes, focusing on breathing, trying not to let the swirling nausea and sudden weakness succeed against him. Dissembling was beyond him for a moment, so the simple truth would have to do. “I have leather armor on and can take a hit somewhat better than you can,” he explained.

A hand on his shoulder, then, and another wave of magical relief forced through him. “Why, Nathaniel Howe. I’m almost getting the impression you care.” 

He almost dismissed it, as he normally did. “ _Don’t misunderstand, Anders, the commander ordered it._ ” Or _“Well, if you’d stop being so careless I wouldn’t have to work so hard to protect you!”_ Anything to get the mage to take himself a little more seriously. To stop goofing off so much.

But crinkled hazel eyes drew his focus, anxiety and self consciousness all too easy to read. He sighed. Walking away would mean the mage would crumble into himself, in a funk for days, presuming rejection when none had been intended. Giving in was nearly as unbearable, the man’s smug satisfaction and crowing taunts would be _ceaseless._

There was really only one option. Curse this stubborn mage and his constant need for repetitive affirmation. “Of course I care, Anders. You’re a friend. We look out for each other.”

To his surprise, though, Anders didn’t immediately start jeering. Instead, there was a flash of something dangerously canny in his eyes, as the mage smirked. “Oh, is that how it is?”

Nathaniel eyed him, warily. “Yes?”

“In that case,” Anders began, and suddenly a gentle pressure on his shoulder followed by a dizzying flash of light, and Nathaniel found himself knocked off his feet and falling back onto his bed. He spent a stunned moment just trying to get his bearings, dizziness taking him once more. “You need rest, Nathaniel. Healer’s orders. I’m not going to have you fainting on my watch, not again.”

“Anders-”

“Friends look out for each other, Nathaniel,” the mage teased him with a smirk. “Remember?”

Nathaniel did his damndest not to grin. But by the delighted twinkle in Anders’s eyes, he knew he wasn’t fooled. 

“Is this normally how you get people into bed, Anders?” Nathaniel teased, finally giving in and leaning back against the pillow.

“Only you, Nate. Only you.” 

  
  
  
  



	12. Patience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Commander Kallian Tabris asks Nathaniel Howe to settle some of the brewing tensions between Velanna and Anders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was almost going to be a chapter in my main fic, Ties that Bind, but I ended up cutting it as I was feeling guilty about pacing. So. This is very canonical to Ties that Bind, though I scrubbed some of the more explicit references.

The scent of elfroot, blood, taint, and used bandages slammed into Nathaniel the moment he stepped into the infirmary. It was a visceral accompaniment to the general bedlam that had been audible even from a ways off. He quickly scanned the room out of habit, though he doubted he’d find danger here. Despite the cacophony, things seemed well ordered. 

The siege had hit Vigil’s Keep hard, and many of their soldiers had been injured in the process. Now that the Wardens had returned from putting a stop to the Mother and source of the darkspawn menace, they’d turned to the process of recovery. Anders, whose talents were well suited, was assigned to the infirmary. But given the number of cases, he’d begged for more help the commander had seen fit to give, in the form of assigning Velanna as well. 

Now it seemed that had rather backfired, as reports of wounded soldiers begging early discharge to avoid their more raucous arguments had made it to the commander, and she’d asked Nathaniel to “look into it and fix it so I don’t have to.” 

Just, solve the problem of shoving the two most temperamental and mercurial Wardens into a small space and stressful situation. Make that  _ stop _ being such an obviously doomed situation.

Wonderful. 

As it happened, the two people he was looking for were working together over on the far side, deep in tense conversation he couldn’t make out over the general racket. Judging by Anders’ wild gesticulations and Velanna’s more sharp, visceral gestures, however, things were pretty much normal. 

“-I just thought you’d  _ know _ is all-”

“Because I’m Dalish, I’m supposed to know every single flower, root, and tree in existence, I assume. Maybe because I prance around naked in the moonlight while fondling them?”

“There’s an image-” Anders leered.

“It’s a flower that she said only grows in the Korcari wilds, human.  _ Fenedhis, _ do you know how far away that is?  _ Why  _ would I know anything about it?!”

“Nate!” Anders called out, brightly and perhaps a tinge desperately, avoiding the need to respond. “What brings you here? Got any little boo-boos you need fixed?”

Velanna growled the frustration of a scathing retort not yet fully released, snatching the bandages out of her fellow mage’s hands as he awkwardly attempted to detangle them. “Nathaniel,” she greeted him, her voice still cool, but noticeably warmer. “You’re in good health?”

“I’m healthy. I’m here to see you both, not beg your talents,” he confirmed. “Are things alright? That didn’t look like a pleasant discussion.”

They exchanged looks, and Anders naturally broke first. “It’s fine, not a big deal. Commander just suggested we use some...flower to help treat some of the worst cases of Taint. Apparently she had a few sent from the Kocari wilds. Problem is, neither of us has seen it before, so we’re not really sure how to best use it, and don’t want to mess up the few samples we have.” A glimmer of mischief entered Anders’ eyes, and Nathaniel forced himself not to sigh in anticipation. “Such a disappointment, too. I really thought this would be the one time it’d be really useful to have a Dalish around-” 

“ _ Fen-harel ma halam! _ ” Velanna snapped back. 

“You don’t mean that,” Anders teased, grin wide, but eyes uncertain. Velanna grumbled, but didn’t disagree. She subsided, folding her arms and audibly huffing.

Hm. If they were this tense already, he needed to set a lighthearted tone. Teasing would probably do the trick; Velanna was more receptive to that from him, these days. “Velanna, I’m impressed. I’d’ve thought having to care for so many shemlen would strain your patience by now.” 

“Oh, she’s well past strained,” Anders muttered. “Try snapped in half.”

“He’s doing more for my patience than a bunch of prone shemlen,” Velanna snorted, gesturing rudely at the other healer. “And it’s not all humans, Nathaniel. Plenty of elves and dwarves were injured as well.”

“I apologize, you are correct, that was a foolishly exclusive error of speech on my part,” Nathaniel agreed easily, and she seemed mollified.

“She takes the non-humans, and leaves the majority for me. Considering the ratios, I’m just overwhelmed with  _ gratitude _ for her generosity,” Anders teased. 

“That’s not true!” Velanna began. She was swelling in anger, a budding rant clearly on her tongue. Nathaniel gave Anders a sharp look, which caused the mage to wisely gesture surrender quickly.

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding! Sorry, I couldn’t resist teasing. Really, I’m glad you’re here. I couldn’t do half as well without you,” he insisted sincerely, causing Velanna to sputter and color faintly. Nathaniel raised an eyebrow, wondering if he was underestimating Anders, but largely waiting to see if the other shoe would drop. Anders’ eyes twinkled with sudden mirth. “Such a fantastic  _ assistant. _ ”

“Oh, you rank  _ toadstool _ ,” she growled, and suddenly Anders yelped in pain, smoke coming from his robes he was forced to rapidly pat out. 

Nathaniel didn’t let so much as a twitch of amusement or irritation show on his face, though he was hard struck by both. Banter like this was quite normal, really, and an easy way to let off stress. Then again, he had to consider they’d put on a calmer face in front of him in the first place, and their tendency to needle each other was concerning. “Well, human or otherwise, I’m sure they’re all very grateful to you both.” Nathaniel considered, and took a risk. “...when they’re not terrified, anyway.”

At this, both mages immediately gave annoyed expressions. 

“Ignorant magic-hating sheml-”

“Superstitious magic-fearing knob-”

They broke off, staring at each other with disgruntlement, and at this, Nathaniel had to smirk. “Yes, it’s only because you’re mages, and has nothing to do with the loud angry arguments in which  _ someone _ ties bandages too tight because he’s worked up, or someone decides she should set the other on  _ fire _ .” 

To his surprise, Velanna colored first, looking away with embarrassment. Nathaniel wouldn’t’ve guessed she might crack so easily. Anders, never one to let someone know they’d gotten to him, just turned to his fellow mage. “Who do you suppose he’s talking about? We should keep them away from our patients,” he loudly whispered.

_ Have patience, _ Nathaniel reminded himself. The list of people who could so easily get under his skin could be counted on one hand, but there was no question Anders was on that; sometimes for the better, sometimes the worse. “Almost everyone I’ve spoken to has proven incredibly grateful for your magic when you’ve healed them,” he insisted calmly, meeting their eyes in turn. 

“ _ Almost _ ?” Anders demanded, archly, though the offense on his face was clearly feigned, amusement all too clear in his features. 

“Some fell into the categories of ‘superstitious’ or ‘ignorant’,” Nathaniel conceded. “And some were just rather afraid of your bedside manners. They seemed to fear getting caught between you two. Could I ask you both to be more mindful of where you both fight?”

“Well if he wouldn’t-”

“That’s absurd-”

Nathaniel cleared his throat and raised an eyebrow, and for a wonder, they both fell silent. Even Anders looked guilty at this point. “Listen. You have to know how valuable you’ve  _ both _ been to Vigil’s Keep. Many of the soldiers who fought at our sides would be dead without your assistance. And I appreciate that with all of the stress you’re under, you need a way to blow off steam. You’re both strong, capable, fearsome forces, capable of handling anything the other dishes out and then some.” He smirked faintly. “Just be mindful of how intimidating you are from your legends alone to the poor folks in your care, will you both?” 

“Fair enough, Nathaniel,” Anders agreed with a sigh. “I suppose the stress is getting to us both.” 

Velanna frowned, but reluctantly nodded agreement. “I will...try to remember how easily frightened most shem are,” she allowed, which was probably as good as he was going to get.

Nathaniel smiled at them both, nodding his head in thanks. “I appreciate it. I suppose I shouldn’t keep you from your duties any longer.”

“Healer’s job is never done!” Anders agreed cheerfully. “Stop by any time, you’ll increase the general cheer in the room.”

Deciding not to give Anders the satisfaction of even asking, he waved politely and left. 

“So how’d it go?”

“Hello to you too, commander,” Nathaniel greeted her politely, and Kallian Tabris rolled her eyes but grinned. 

“Insubordinate sass,” she declared. “Anders. Velanna. Do I need to intervene?”

Nathaniel smiled faintly. “Not sure yet,” he conceded. “But I believe things will settle.”

“But I want to know  _ now _ ,” she complained, though cheerful eyes suggested this was mostly to tease him. 

“Patience is a virtue, commander.”

“Ass.”


	13. Friendship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nathaniel and Oghren have a friendly sparring match to blow off some steam.
> 
> CW: Mild injuries, blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, this is salvaged from another cut scene from Ties that Bind. It originally went into the chapter 6 interlude, "Writing Letters." For the sake of Natevember, I've scrubbed it of more direct references to plot elements.

Between a challenging conversation with the commander and an exasperating conversation with Justice, it had been a particularly stressful day for Nathaniel Howe. All he wanted to do was exhaust himself until he could collapse into bed, unconscious. Days like this, he was particularly grateful to have found friendship with Oghren; the dwarf was always down for a tussle and had yet to take exception or even notable injury if Nathaniel’s self control broke. 

The rogue was trying to be better about that, but as a trained assassin, when things got heated in combat situations, Nathaniel occasionally defaulted to his worst impulses - brutally suppressing opponents and removing their capacity to retaliate. Oghren, however, could take and dish out any level of beating, and seemed to find as much solace as Nathaniel in sparring matches escalating a notch above what any of the other Wardens were comfortable with. 

It was a useful way to end up exhausted when Warden stamina was proving something of a curse, otherwise.

They were in their third match, at the moment, and this one had certainly gone on for awhile, even longer than their matches normally tended to. Nathaniel was only just beginning to feel the first twinges of tiredness. There was no question Oghren had strength and endurance to outlast the rogue, but his training as a squire had not gone to waste. Nathaniel knew he was Oghren’s second favorite sparring partner after the commander herself. Nathaniel could take multiple hits from the dwarf - whenever he managed to land one, anyway.

“So, we still on for drinks after I pummel your scrawny ass?” Oghren mocked, wide grin not at all hidden or even diminished by his bushy red moustache. 

“I am more than willing to carry you to the tavern as always, Oghren,” Nathaniel responded, amusement simmering below a surface of calm. He carefully watched Oghren’s movements, waiting for a moment of weakness. “You know Anders objects to healing you when you’re drunk, though.”

“Hah! Worry more about those delicate archer’s hands of yours, you pansy,” Oghren fired back, charging in for a rapid series of testing jabs. 

Because of both the height and strength difference, dodging was even more crucial than usual. Quick strafing steps meant most of the blows struck only air. Nathaniel responded with a quick feinted jab of his own followed by a hard elbow strike, which only hit Oghren’s forearm. It did bring his guard further up, though, blocking his vision of Nathaniel’s follow up knee until a moment too late. His knee smashed into Oghren’s bicep, causing the dwarf to wince and warily retreat to a safe distance, slightly favoring his arm for a moment. 

“Blighted surfacers and their long dancy limbs. What is this, a sparring match or a ballet?” the dwarf growled, still circling Nathaniel.

“Apologies, but you’re too short to punch,” Nathaniel retorted, managing to thread a tone of regret into his voice. Oghren roared with laughter as he usually did, which was something of a relief; racial-based humor was not the rogue’s preference, but the dwarf seemed to appreciate it. Oghren was doing him a favor; he could step outside of his own comfort zone and banter in a way the warrior preferred. 

“Nathaniel,” Sigrun’s voice hailed him. Seeing Oghren’s predatory grin, he allowed himself to seem distracted for a moment, turning his head to face his fellow rogue. Even as her face grew suddenly stricken, Nathaniel counted the footsteps.

Oghren’s stride had early been a consternation of Nathaniel’s, as he wasn't used to fighting dwarves, having not had the opportunity before. He'd expected that Oghren's shorter and stockier build would result in a warrior slow to engage and retreat. But when this dwarven warrior actually pushed himself, he seemed to sail right over land, powerful muscles launching him nearly a pace and half what a taller human might normally manage. 

This time, though, Nathaniel was ready. Without immediately turning, he swiveled, feeling the wind from Oghren’s haymaker sweep past his side, barely missing him. Having overcommitted himself as usual, Oghren would be unable to deviate from this action until the arc was complete, and that was more than enough time for Nathaniel to brutally punish the overreach. A few sharp blows to the kidneys followed by a kick to Oghren’s knee and the dwarf howled vituperations about broken legs at him.

Nathaniel blinked, guilt surging. Damn his mood, how had he let himself get that distracted? He hadn’t been trying to strike so hard, he’d-ah. 

Oghren’s feinted ploy had suckered Nathaniel into a moment’s hesitation, and suddenly a ball of red rage was barrelling towards him. He danced backwards but he’d gotten too close to Oghren’s range now while unprepared, and the fighter was cursed hard to put down like this. A headbutt to the stomach that left Nathaniel far too winded to punish, and finally he was tackled to the ground.

“Heh heh,” Oghren chuckled. “I’m beginning to think you like being wrestled by ol’ Oghren here."

His foul breath nearly made Nathaniel blanch, but in this Oghren was such an easy mark. Nathaniel let a sly smirk carve his features, grabbing the dwarf by the ass, who stiffened and howled in embarrassment, scrambling back, which of course bought Nathaniel the time he needed to hop to his feet and knee the dwarf in the face, a crack indicating a broken nose. More vituperations again even as blood began to pour into his beard.

“Sod it all,” he finished, but when he finally released his nose Nathaniel was relieved to see an earsplitting grin on the dwarf’s face. Oghren was a good natured fighter, and loved a lively tussle - lively being primarily defined as ‘blood was lost somewhere”. He never cared if it was his. “You win this round.”

As the fight was definitely over, he finally turned to the dwarf rogue, bowing. “What can I do for you, Sigrun?”

She rolled her eyes at his formality, as she always did, but a faint smirk told him she’d enjoy watching Oghren get his ass kicked, and Nathaniel was glad to do her that favor. “Nothing important. Heard there were drinks happening later and wanted to join in. Sorry, Oghren looked so beat up I assumed you were done.”

“Hah! You have so little faith in me, woman. I promise you, Oghren can keep going _All. Night. Long._ ” Oghren’s leering never even approached charming in the best of times, but this particular moment was all the more off-putting by his spitting blood throughout. Quite unnecessarily and with overt affect, he winked at Sigrun. 

Sigrun made a face. “Get that healed up, you savage. Isn’t Felsi supposed to get in tonight?”

“Bah! Makes the visit all the more sweet. You know she can’t keep her hand off me when things get a little….rough,” he proclaimed instead.

Nathaniel smirked. “That’s a favor I can make happen any time, Oghren.” The dwarf gave him a wide grin and thumbs up, made somewhat unsettling by the blood covering his teeth. The rogue had reservations that his - wife? - Felsi actually preferred this, but that wasn’t his problem. “Anyway, yes, Sigrun, we were heading to the tavern once we finished around here, so I suppose if you’re free now -” 

“What, you scared to go another round with me, squire boy?” Oghren smirked, putting up his fists again. “Three matches and you’re done? It’s best of five and I’m one away from winning, still.”

“Oghren, you have a broken nose.”

Oghren burped, before messily wiping the growing pool from his moustache _._ Then, as if purely to show how much tougher he was, he sniffed noisily through his broken nose. “That supposed to mean something? 

Nathaniel sighed, but a smirk was undeniably making its way to his features. He turned to raise a questioning glance at Sigrun, whose wide, eager grin was answer on its own. “Alright then, Oghren,” he agreed, turning back squaring up once more. Both dwarves cheered, Sigrun quickly vaulting onto the courtyard wall to get a good view. “Show me what you’ve got, friend.” 


	14. Secret & Snow-cuddling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elspeth Cousland drags Nathaniel Howe from the trophy room to demonstrate her latest trap. It doesn't go quite as planned.  
> Neither seem to mind.
> 
> This is explicitly an alternative perspective on my own main fic, Ties that Bind - it's counterpart, from Elsa's perspective, is found here:[Elsa's perspective](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25171330/chapters/64669498)

Nathaniel winced as a particularly loud shout of his father drifted into the room. Normally the trophy room was reasonably secluded enough that the sounds of his parents’ arguments wouldn’t carry, but today was a particularly bad one, it seemed. 

It was frustrating, and heartbreaking, and at times, Nathaniel felt like a horrible son for being angry at his parents. He wished they’d get along more. Or at least, pretend where others could hear them so easily. 

And did father have to snarl quite so much at mum? 

Guilt filled him anew, for doubting his father, and he forced himself to drift towards some of the accolades on proud display. His father was a hero - a key figure in the war for independence. It was wrong of Nathaniel to doubt him, not after all he’d done for their country, for his family. He reached out a hand to trace the inscription, to feel that reminder, that proof that the king himself had honored his father. 

His father was a hero. Maybe with something of a temper, but hadn’t he earned that?

Nathaniel almost sighed heavily, but soft approaching footsteps reminded him to be calm and collected, to not show weakness. 

Elspeth Cousland, roguish pupil of his father and daughter of their liege lord, came to stand next to him, surprisingly silent. There was a restless energy to her, that suggested she wanted something from him, but was patient enough to wait. Nathaniel found himself grateful for the distraction; focusing on her was much easier than focusing on the ambient sounds that kept drifting to the room. 

“White River,” he explained, gesturing at the medal, as she seemed unwilling to break the silence. She must know the story, he’d little need to explain it. “I think about that battle a lot. At how brave and strong my father was, to make it out alive.” But the battle had changed him, uncle Leonas had claimed. “It must have been hard, though.”

“Yeah,” she agreed quietly. “Whenever I see that, I think of how lucky I am.”

A smile nearly threatened to reveal itself, which he worked to suppress. That was Elsa, always looking on the bright side, to find what good she could even in bad situations. “Oh?” he asked, hoping to tease such thoughts out of her.

“Our fathers made it out alive,” she explained, eyeing him sidelong, with a faint smile. Nathaniel was abashed to have to be reminded her father had been present too, if less horribly maimed “Means I get to be here.”

Never bet against Elsa, he thought to himself, losing his battle against a smile. “I suppose I see that,” he agreed. “I feel lucky too, then.” Her smile widened, threatening inconvenient feelings within him, so he shifted the attention back to her. “So what’s got you excited, Elsa?”

“I’m not excited, I’m calm as a lake!” she lied blatantly with sparkling eyes, body quivering with a dancing tension yet unreleased.

“Uh huh. Sure. Your noble facade needs work, you know.”

“Ok! Ok! I’m really excited, but I didn’t want to distract you,” she admitted in a heartbeat, suddenly waving some vellum in his face. “I think I figured out how to get the fire-thingy to work!”

“Oh Maker,” Nathaniel groaned. Wild ideas tended to burrow into her head and wrest all her attention beyond hope of retrieving. And while he had to concede they were occasionally clever, good sense and restraint weren’t the young Cousland’s strongest qualities. “What’s the problem, I can just heal myself with elfroot!” might turn into one of his least favorite phrases in existence. “This again? Fire bombs work fine as they are. You can’t improve them.”

“I’m not trying to improve , just change them, and oh, you know what? It doesn’t matter. Anyway, it’s fine, you’re busy, I don’t need to distract you. I just need to go test this in a big open area, and want someone there just in case things go bad. But I can see you’re occupied, so I’ll just be on my way.”

Nathaniel sighed, unwillingly grinning in anticipation. He had to at least give some effort to dissuading her, though; she needed more voices of reason on her shoulder. “Elsa. Didn’t your last experiment ruin your spare winter cloak?”

She stared at him, unphased, nodding, clearly wondering where he was going with this.  
“Uh huh.”

“And the maids are still fixing it, and your first one still is ruined?”

“Yup.”

“Elsa. You know it’s still winter outside, right?”

“Of course!”

“Elsa,” he rubbed his nose in exasperation. “My lady. Please consider your health. You’re going to get cold. Can’t this wait ‘till spring?”

“Paaaah,” she dismissed blithely, waving a hand. “I’ve still got gloves, and I’m not going to be out that long, and if I’m wrong, it’s easier if there’s snow around instead of plants to get caught up in the flame.”

He made as if he was considering for a long moment, fighting against the inevitable if for no other reason than stubbornness. “Alright, well, let me go get my cloak. Meet you by the tree?”

“Yesss!” she agreed, and after a flash of guilt, quickly smoothed her expression, visibly forcing a calmer demeanor. “I mean. Ah. Of course, Lord Nathaniel, I’m honored by your time.”

* * *

  
  


She was waiting by their favorite willow by the time he approached, her splash of auburn hair and colorful stout cottons an arresting sight when set against the pristine beauty of the frozen lake. Before he’d met her, he’d figured a proper rogue was all about remaining unseen, hiding in the shadows. Elsa, however, was beginning to teach him the virtue - and danger - of being a thoroughly distracting rogue. Sparring matches, dagger forms, poison making - all she had to do was flash him a smile, and suddenly Nathaniel felt like a bumbling and incapable idiot. 

He could see her restless, quivering energy was more pronounced, now - or perhaps, she was simply just shivering. Flushed cheeks suggested the latter. She smiled at him as if delighted to see him, as if she adored spending time with him, and Nathaniel felt his heart warmed by the thought - that someone would find so much joy in _him._ That cursed smile was dangerous. But it wasn’t quite the same as the polite smile she shared with all, was it? There was another dangerous notion, one Nathaniel knew he wanted to believe a touch too much. 

“Alright, Elsa, so what’s this horror?” he asked, determined to distract himself from such thoughts. 

A dangerous fire lit in her eyes, excitement that had long since taught Nathaniel to proceed with caution, even as she pulled out a flask. “Ok, ok, so, you know how grease is flammable but f-fire bombs don’t ignite it?” 

“That’s...I assume a feature, Elsa,” he replied warily. “Grease isn’t just used in traps, you know, and both are usually stored in armories. There are specific, safe traps and mechanisms for igniting grease.”

“Pah, I know, I know,” she dismissed, even as her teeth began chattering. Her shivering form had Nathaniel twitching to reach out to her. “Details. B-But I was reading about that, and it couldn’t be just a t-temperature thing, because in the Battle of--

“Elsa,” he interrupted her, openly chuckling. “Your teeth are already chattering. At this rate, I’m going to have to carry a frozen Elsa statue back on my back, and you will look very silly. Is that what you want? Just show me, and explain when we’re inside.”

“F-f-fiiiine,” she agreed, seeming disgruntled to have her building story cut off. Focused eyes turned themselves to quickly setting up her trap, and Nathaniel couldn’t help but feel a touch of apprehension at her rising glee. 

He was worried for nothing, though; the flames only lightly took up the grease, a small flickering ribbon searing over the top. He could see her waiting in increasingly disappointed anticipation, but it was clear that this slow and steady burn was as much of a reaction as they could expect. 

“Sod it,” Elsa cursed, shoulders drooping with disappointment. Brown eyes pored over the fire, as if demanding it explain its poor performance

“Elsa!” he reprimanded her, trying not to laugh openly at her pain. “Where’d a proper lady learn language like that?”

She glanced at him sidelong, smirking with amusement. “Apologies Lord Nathaniel,” she offered, theatrically simpering. “I feel terrible about making your s-sensitive ears burn.”

“Well, at least something’s actually burning,” he fired back, head tilting to the sad fire, smirk all too mocking.

Never one to let an opportunity to be a ham pass, she pressed her hand to her heart, head thrown back to stare at the sky, as if woefully beseeching the Maker. “S-slander! Abuse! How could you kick a lady when she’s d-down like this, Nathaniel?”

“Oh please. Nothing can bring you down,” he retorted. “Now, put that...sad display of fire out and let’s go back inside.”

“Aheh. Heh. Uh. About th-that.”

“Elsa….”

“Look, you c-can’t just put water on grease f-fires, it’ll spread it and m-make it worse!” 

He frowned, looking around. “Dirt’s too frozen to use...what’s your plan, here?”

“...k-keep watch until it b-burns itself out?” She was rubbing her arms vigorously, now, and Nathaniel doubted her blush was entirely from embarrassment.

He stared at her, and sighed in exasperation. “Elsa, you’re gonna freeze out here.”

“It’s f-fine!” she insisted, teeth still chattering.

“Then you go inside, I’ll keep watch. I don’t want you freezing.”

“No! I have to c-clean up my own mistakes. B-besides, I have this...lovely fire to warm myself with.” 

Dammit. Stubborn, dutiful Elsa. The desire to fold her into his arms was pounding through him, nearly overbearing at this point. It would be a breach, to be sure; she was the daughter of Teyrn Cousland, his father’s liege lord, and his father would doubtless scold him for being so forward. But didn’t he have excuse, here?

He couldn’t exactly let her continue to risk herself like this, either. She was going to catch a cold, and get sick, and his father would blame him for risking a lady with such a delicate disposition as he supposed she had. 

Heart clenched inside him, he took a chance, stepping up to her and draping his arm and cloak over her shoulder, pulling her in. She started in surprise, but at least she didn’t immediately pull away. “Here. I’ll keep you warm,” he murmured, too embarrassed to face her openly, sure his awkward feelings were shouting themselves to her.

“Nathaniel, you don’t h-haveta,” she protested, hovering in indecision.

“It’s fine. We can share my cloak,” he insisted quietly, before a surge of dread took him. “Unless you mind?” _I just thought you looked cold, I apologize for such an unseemly breach of decorum_ , he prepared, mind whirling to excuse himself.

But she solved that growing anxiety in a moment, wrapping her arms around him in turn, body pressed up against his. His heart pounded, and he found it difficult to breath for a moment. _I’m just trying to keep her warm!_ He insisted to himself.

“You sh-shouldn’t have to stand here forever, though.”

Was it standing that was the problem? “Hm. Sit by the tree?” he offered, and she quickly nodded. Gently turning, he guided her to the tree, sitting down and holding open his cloak in invitation. She gratefully sunk next to him, nestling into his arms. 

Nathaniel had to focus on keeping his breathing even for a moment, not wanting to so thoroughly betray himself and make her uncomfortable. But having her in his arms like this was searing the most distracting feelings through him. Cuddling her in the snow was just to keep her warm, he tried to tell himself, but it wasn’t a lie he could pull off.

Would she chide him, if she knew how she was making him feel? She hated the attention Thomas gave her, clearly uncomfortable with his younger brother’s obvious and rather condescending flirtations. Did she feel the same way about Nathaniel, only more subtle about it because he was? The question burned at him; he had to know.

“You’re not uncomfortable, are you?” he asked quietly, breaking the silence.

“Goodness, no. Ah. Thank you,” she replied quietly. “This is much warmer. I, I’m very silly. Apologies, I shouldn’t impose on you like this.”

He believed her, tension draining. Who was imposing on who, here? Or was she perhaps enjoying this as much as him? If nothing else, all that mattered is that she wasn’t trying to awkwardly find a way out of this situation. And if she was content to stay in his arms longer, he’d be more than happy to dwell as long as she would. He chuckled. “I don’t mind,” he insisted, then took a risk. “This is...nice.” 

“Yeah,” she sighed. “I missed being outside.”

Ah. Swallowing disappointment, he took a leaf from her book and changed the subject. “You’re usually better about testing things on a smaller scale, first,” he teased. “Is that why you rushed forward on this? Thought you’d mess up the other direction and have a nice bonfire to warm up?”

“I mean, that was part of it,” she admitted, sounding grumpy. “Pah. I didn’t think I needed it this time! I was sure my maths were correct, why wait?”

Nathaniel nearly started in surprise. She was clearly lying; overplaying her tone of wounded pride. Come to think of it, none of this situation made sense. Elsa was undeniably cocky and often incautious, but rarely was she willing to openly fail so under-dramatically on something that she could easily have tested without an audience.

Which begged the question, why did she really want him out here? “Elsa, I’m surprised at you,” he murmured. “Willing to throw your pride under the cart on that story, were you?” he teased. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her scowl, eyes whirling with lies half formed.

“So why, really?” he pressed, not wanting to give her a chance. He wanted to know, now - why had she asked him out here?

“Uhm.”

“Elsa...” 

“Give me a second, I’ll think of something,” she protested.

“C’mon Elsa. Why’d you really rush this? And in front of an audience, no less? Usually you don’t--oh.” Realization thundered through him. 

Where had he been, before this all began? In the trophy room.

Avoiding his parents.

Shame began growing inside him, that she’d seen this weakness of his, and felt obliged to rescue him. He nearly sighed. Was he so weak? What must she think of him, that she tried to hide him behind her skirts like a sniveling pup? “This was for my sake. You wanted to get me out of the castle. Away from...them.”

She actually did sigh, then, somberness growing in her bearing. “I’m sorry. I just thought it’d be a nice distraction. That it would be nicer out here. I didn’t mean any insult by it.” There was a sincerity to her tone, then, that Nathaniel found compelling. And that she was apologizing to him - was he just being silly, too? 

And was she even wrong?

He had felt miserable in the throne room. But sitting out here, in the snow, cuddling with Elsa, he had entirely forgotten about his parents’ fight, or the melancholic feelings associated with it. 

Whatever else she was, whatever else he wanted her to be, Elspeth was a dear friend of his. And with a mind to his apparently obviously fragile pride, she’d sacrificed her own all to distract him from his moping, to make his day a little brighter. 

He could feel her sinking into guilt beside him, and hugged her tighter, not willing to let her continue blaming herself for her sneaky kindness. “You...don’t have to apologize. I’m not admitting I needed this, but...it is nicer out here,” he rumbled, warmth plain in his tone. “You’re a real sweetheart, you know.”

She chuckled, clearly relieved. “Are you accusing me of softness? How dare.” He laughed in response and they nestled in tighter, and he couldn’t help but feel her to be very soft indeed. 

This felt right to him in a way that defied explanation or justification. That alone was cause for concern. It would be overstepping his boundaries to let these feelings grow. Elsa was a dear and treasured friend. She was also a Cousland. And more importantly, unenthused by the prospect of marriage and courtship, if his brother’s efforts were anything to go by.

Did she really need another Howe brother, panting after her?

As if reading his thoughts, she sighed and tensed next to him, and he’d wondered if he betrayed himself. “Something wrong, Elsa?” he asked carefully.

“Don’t tell your father such mean and untrue accusations. He’ll call me a hopeless girl and send me packing.”

Ah. She was still nervous she’d be kicked out, as if she wasn’t a damn fine rogue and credit to his father’s training. His father could be careful with doling out praise, it was true, but his father was also the most intelligent man Nathaniel knew. Clearly, lord Howe saw what a fine rogue he’d trained her to be; if nothing else, she’d managed to trick Nathaniel into being distracted without him even noticing, and ended up thanking her for it. She was one to keep an eye on, that much was clear. But if it was reassurances she needed, those he was happy to provide. “I’ll keep your secret to myself, then,” he agreed softly, amused. “I’d rather not lose you.”

Speaking the words proved to have a dangerous side effect, however. His heart thumped inside him, the truth he wanted to say practically shouted in undertone. _I want to be with you. Stay with me. Now. Later._

But he kept the words locked within him. They were not sought, and revealing them might only jeopardize the relationship he was lucky enough to have. Besides. She was letting him hold her right now. That was more than enough.  
  
  
  



End file.
